


Things You Said That Made Me Feel Real

by somekindofseizure



Series: Things You Said [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Motel Rooms, pilot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure





	Things You Said That Made Me Feel Real

She is still propped on her elbow, the stiffness running sharp up her side. When she was little, she’d lie unnoticed in her parents’ bed after a nightmare, her stillness a sacred secret to staying there. Tonight, the nightmare she’s witnessed is Fox Mulder’s and he’s been having it for twenty years.

He is still on the floor facing the window, watching the rain like it’s a vigil in his honor. She was asked to observe him, and she has observations. He has lost and is the lost one, he’s a crusader, a hero and possibly a lunatic. He’s first man since her father to see her hair’s natural texture without buying her dinner. But he has also seen her in her underwear. Everything is out of order. 

Eventually, her hair makes its way into her eyelashes as, drunk on humidity, it continues its quest for world dominance. This is how she loses the war against movement, pushing away rebellious strands of hair. She tugs fretfully as her fingers are trapped there. Only a fool would go in without a comb and a blow dryer. She has been thinking of dyeing it lately. Just a shade different - vermillion, she thinks, something bolder. Bleach and brighten it into submission. 

There is no sense in taking her place back on her elbow now that she’s broken the spell. He moves too, placing his hands on his knees, rubbing the grain of his denim. The mattress rustles like Saran Wrap when she finally shifts onto her back and rolls her wrist around under the cuff of her red robe. She will have to buy some real pajamas if she’s going to be traveling for work more. Something with buttons, she thinks. 

She braces herself to hear that he’s tired, that he wants his bed back. But the quiet settles even deeper. It is end of a slumber party silence, one of hoarse voices and sore hearts, topics that wound themselves elliptically into exhaustion until there was nothing left. At this party, there is no Truth or Dare. Or maybe there had been; maybe she was already playing when she showed up at the door. 

“Come up,” she says and immediately realizes its implication. “There’s room,” she adds, so he knows she is not inviting him to share the space above her.

“Thought you were asleep,” he says and then pushes himself backward up onto the bed. The room is a shade darker by the time he lies flat next to her, hands folded across his chest. She can’t help but think that the smell of warm wax is borne from his skin, though she has witnessed the candles melting with her own eyes. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve said all that out loud,” he says, sounding for the first time self-conscious. Now, and not when she was standing pointlessly in her underwear, and not when he was telling her he believes in aliens. 

“There hasn’t been anyone to tell.” 

Her heart dampens with the realization that it’s not that he trusts her, it’s just that she’s here. Maybe she can be here until he trusts her.

“You don’t believe me – “ he begins. 

“Mulder,” she interrupts.

“But the way you don’t believe me is different.” He pauses. She resists the urge to fill the silence, but her heartbeat picks up the slack, beating like a drum solo. 

“You make me feel real, somehow,” he finishes. 

Suddenly, she is awash with temperature and taste. The salt gathering in her saliva, the warmth from his hug, the coldness of the motel floor, the darkness of his eyes, the brightness of his mad smile in the pouring rain. She has never felt more real than this moment, so she turns her back to him and chooses her words carefully - she has already put more faith in the sash of this bathrobe than any piece of cloth should bear.

“Mulder, I’m not sure we agree on the meaning of the word ‘real.’”

The direction of his voice changes. He’s looking at the back of her head now, straight into the riot of her naked auburn waves. _Careful._

“We’ll have to work on that, Scully.”

 

 

 


End file.
